


Turn from the sun

by mndalorians



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, GN!READER, M/M, Other, Slow Burn, Some Casual Drinking, Western AU, talk of familial death (caused by disease), will add more as the series goes on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 20:22:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30145092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mndalorians/pseuds/mndalorians
Summary: A lone man wanders into town. Both you and the townspeople see a way to make the most of the stranger’s arrival, though you hardly could have expected what would unfold.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You, The Mandalorian/Reader, The Mandalorian/You
Kudos: 1





	Turn from the sun

**Author's Note:**

> It's taken me about six months of working on and off to finally finish this, so any feedback would be really appreciated!

The earth was cracked beneath your feet.

With so little water – the sky having been clear of clouds for at least a week – it had given up, fissured open in the hopes of an underground water source rushing up to quench it but all that had sputtered out was dust and tumbleweeds. A rain was due. A sudden change that would sweep the topsoil away, expose new earth and something new. You weren’t quite sure what that _something_ was, didn’t have the foresight to guess at it, but you knew it was there, just over the horizon, just out of sight.

A change was coming. You felt it in your bones.

You felt it in the air, too, when you pushed the saloon door open, your intake of breath as sticky as the tables scattered about the space, rickety old things you were sure had been there since before you were born, discoloured by liquor that had seeped into the grain of the wood. Your eyes swept across the room as you moved towards the bar, taking stock of the regulars: Peterin nursing his drink, Tag and Bink hunched close together over their cards—

You stuttered to a stop, barely six feet away from the door.

A man, a stranger, sat languid and confident in the far corner, his back to the wall, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles beneath the table. His head was dipped, seemingly focused on the half-drunk beer in front of him, the liquid a dull amber underneath the low light of the oil lamp hanging over his table. The sun blazed outside but the saloon with its blacked-out windows was made up of shadows that were thrown about the room and splattered up the walls to become looming figures over the day drinkers. The stranger was no different, his eyes were concealed with the shadow cast by the brim of his hat, leaving only his lips (a straight line if not for the slightly downturned corners) to be discerned alongside the scruff that framed them.

A rifle was propped against the chair next to him, and upon spotting it you knew exactly who he was. Rumours had whipped up like a dust storm outside the general store; whispers of a lone man who had wandered into town seeking work had been rife amongst the gathered townsfolk that morning. Maggie Williams had command over a small crowd as she detailed the stranger when you left the store earlier that morning, eager and worn-out faces clinging to her promises that he was the saviour your town needed; the Imps had tormented you for too long.

‘Where is he then?’ someone asked from the back of the group – you could just make out the white hair of Ol’ Danvers, one of the few who had stayed behind after the gold rush.

‘Over at Maz’s’ was the reply.

And so there you were, hope bubbling up in your chest at the prospect that you might finally be able to rid yourself of the dark cloud hanging over you.

The other patrons eyed the rifle nervously. Guns tended to not be so freely displayed in Roth Hollow, but you supposed an exception had been made for the man who would purportedly save your town from the Imps.

Your eyes travelled slowly up over the man’s starched shirt and weathered vest, the bandana that hung loose around his neck (a rusty red in comparison to your own), the lips pressed together, the strong nose. It was then that he shifted, inclined his head, revealing his eyes as they lifted from the glass and settled on you, as if he had sensed your stare. Your chest tightened and it was an effort to release your breath. His eyes were so dark that no light reflected in them, dark pits that reminded you of a snake bite like the one that had punctured your ankle when you were eleven. You were old enough to have known better at that age than to play by the entrance of the abandoned mine, but still arrogant enough to believe yourself untouchable.

You felt like that child again when his eyes remained steadfast on you. On the precipice between immortality and the fall as you stood there, caught in his gaze like a rodent staring at a rattlesnake, aware of the danger so close by, but unable to articulate exactly how said danger would present itself when that danger was motionless. The man tilted his head to the side, narrowed his eyes.

A warning.

 _Stay away_.

And yet you were compelled by him, couldn’t easily pull your gaze from his. It was like a silent shootout, but instead of taking ten paces back, you wanted to move towards him, ask him his name and discover what had brought him to your tiny town in the first place, if it was for something beyond work.

Would he strike if you approached?

Would you risk it to find out?

He held your stare, resolute.

You looked away, finally, when the weight of his gaze became too heavy to bear and dipped your head to hide behind the brim of your own hat.

Round one to the stranger.

You started up towards the bar again, face warm, and slid onto a stool, each creak of the floorboards and chair making you cringe. Settling into the seat, you hunched your shoulders to somewhat obscure your face from his view, though the thought left a bitter taste in your mouth. Why would he still be staring at you?

Nevertheless, you could not help yourself from sneaking a glance out of the corner of your eye. His focus was thankfully on his drink, twisting the glass he held in his hand this way and that, the froth sloshing against the sides. His grimace told you he hadn’t been served one of the saloon’s nicer (or at least more palatable) beers.

Maz Kanata, the one responsible for the man’s reaction, poked her head over the counter, drawing your attention away. ‘Usual?’

‘Sure,’ you sighed, unenthused.

Maz was the shortest woman you had ever met yet she carried herself like she was over six feet tall. You supposed she had to when her clientele featured more than the occasional drunk, and as far as you could tell it worked out well for her. Not even Buster, most certainly the burliest and surliest man east of the Mississippi, would have dared to cross her, at least not after the first ill-fated attempt which had left him to sulk off and lick his wounds. It had been the talk of the town for close to a week and was still brought up to that day, an easy target for anyone who wished to see him flush.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Maz started as she set a glass of beer down in front of you, ‘and you’re a fool.’

It was clear to everyone in town, you were sure, that you would jump at any chance to free yourself of the reputation that clung to you like the tumbleweeds that plagued the landscape. Your father’s own reputation had loomed over you for years, and try as you might, it had been impossible to rid yourself of that dark shadow. You were not your father, but few others seemed to recognise that. Maz, being an old family friend and generally clued in on the goings on of the town knew well your own feelings on the matter and how desperately you chased any opportunity to remedy that false perception.

‘Maz, come on. This could be my chance! When’s the next time I’ll get an opportunity like this? Never mind one that just wandered into town.’

Maz hummed, tugged at the cloth rag she used to wipe down the bar while you sipped your drink, a smile tugging the corners of her lips when she recognised your ignorance. ‘You don’t know who he is, do you?’

‘… no?’

She glanced to her right. You resisted the urge to look too. ‘He’s _the_ Mandalorian.’

Shifting back in your seat, you pursed your lips, thoughts swirling around. You suspected Maz had offered up this titbit to discourage you from doing anything rash – the stories you had heard of the Mandalorian did not just encompass his more high infamous bounties but also the continual danger he found himself in, from shootouts to fights atop racing trains if the rumours were to be believed. But for how long had you dreamed of such a chance? And would your name not only being attached to the to the takedown of the Imps but also to the Mandalorian only bolster your reputation when you returned?

You watched Maz watch you for a minute or so, weighed up your options. ‘I’m going to do it,’ you finally said, pushing away from the bar and slipping off your stool.

Maz _tsk_ ed but did nothing else to dissuade you.

As you started towards the table, you looked over and caught Tag’s eye, though he was quick to turn back to his cards when he realised he’d been spotted. Energy and anticipation seemed to thrum through your veins as you approached the Mandalorian, quickening your heart rate and leaving you near breathless when you reached the edge of his table. He lifted his head when you dropped into the chair across from him, shadows receding to reveal his eyes in the light. It was a good thing you were sitting down as your stomach fell away when they once again met yours, less dark but no less intimidating. You swallowed your nerves – _you could do this! this is what you’ve been waiting for!_ – and leaned in close, lest any eavesdroppers happened to be about. You couldn’t trust Tag as far as you could throw him when it came to gossip. ‘So, you’re the Mandalorian? You’re the one taking on the Imps?’

‘Apparently so.’

The low timbre of his voice sent a jolt through your heart, so unexpected that you could do nothing but gape at him for a beat. You blinked. Refocused. ‘Mandalorian—’

‘Mando’s fine.’

‘Mando, I want to come with you. I want to help you against the Imps.’

‘No,’ he said, so simply. How was it possible that one single word, one single vowel, could shoot down the opportunity you have been dreaming of for _years_?

‘ _No?_ ’ There was no flicker of emotion – not even of annoyance, no furrowed scowl – as you moved even closer, hands clasped together as if in prayer. ‘But I can—’

‘No. I’m not splitting the reward—’

‘I don’t want it,’ you interrupted.

A tilt of his head. _Now_ you had his attention. His eyes searched your face and found nothing but honesty in your earnest eyes and upturned brows. ‘You want to go after the Imps, but not for money… then why?’ He scoffed as he leaned back and folded his arms. ‘ _Glory?_ ’

‘ _No._ ’ You sat back too, jutted your chin out ‘I want respect. I don’t get any around here.’

‘Have you considered moving?’ He asked, deadpan.

‘My family has been here since before this place was called Roth Hollow. I’m not moving.’

The man shook his head, as if that weren’t a good enough reason for him. It wasn’t, not when the United States had been built upon dispossession.

‘Besides,’ you continued, ‘I don’t want to run from my problems, that’s the coward’s move.’

‘Sometimes the idiot’s move too,’ he replied, taking another swig of his drink as if to punctuate his point.

You pulled your bottom lip into your mouth and bit it as indignation flared your nostrils. Mando shifted, rolled his shoulders back and his waistcoat opened enough with the movement for you to catch sight of a repaired tear stretching across the left side of his shirt, the handiwork rough but passable. You couldn’t help but wonder for a moment about the scar beneath it, how he had gotten it, how deep the wound had been, if you leaving Roth Hollow would throw you headfirst into such danger. A small voice, from where every apprehension you ever had lived, rose up to say _yes_ , _you will come face to face with such danger_. You shoved it down as you leaned in to speak again, but Mando was quicker on the draw.

‘I don’t need a partner, I work fine on my own.’

‘So, you’re just going to take down the Imps yourself?’

He regarded you with those jet-black eyes that gave you nothing but an uneasy feeling in your bones. ‘Yes.’

You let out a disbelieving huff of a laugh, pulling away as you shook your head. ‘Then _you’re_ an idiot; that’s a death wish, no matter how good you supposedly are.’

It was Mando’s turn to move towards you, uncrossing his arms so he could rest his elbows on the table separating the two of you, shoulders curling in as he did so. His eyes, darkened by shadows, were like starless nights that concealed the dangers just beneath your feet. One false move and you were as good as dead. ‘And there being two of us would make much of a difference?’

You shrugged, feigned nonchalance despite the tumultuous turn of your stomach under his unwavering stare and fired back with: ‘Couldn’t make it worse.’

‘You’d slow me down.’

‘I can hold my own.’

‘Sure you can. You’ve never travelled far from home, have you?’

‘No, but I’m a good shot—’

‘Everyone says that.’

Your features soured faster than milk left in the sun. ‘Well I mean it.’

‘Of course you do.’ He leaned back again, the verbal shootout concluded, though you would have called it a draw rather than declare it a loss, too stubborn to admit defeat.

All you needed was to reload, to try a new angle. ‘What would it take for me to convince you that it would be worthwhile to let me tag along?’

He shook his head, turned away momentarily as if to collect himself before his eyes found yours again. Snake eyes. A snake bite. Dangerous either way. ‘You don’t get it, do you? The Imps don’t follow the law. They pay it off or disregard it. They’ll do whatever it takes to get what they want. You might think you have a chance against them, but you’d be playing with the deck stacked against you. Me saying no is for your own good.’

You stared at him, mouth parted in disbelief.

‘ _Fine_.’ The chair legs screeched against the floor as you stood. ‘Run after them with impossible odds, see if anyone else will help you when you realise you’re in over your head.’

You struck the snake with your words, _turned your back on him_ , but he did not strike as you were so worried he would. Instead, he watched your retreating figure, lifted his brows as the saloon door swung back from the force of your fury, nearly cracking against the wall. The door swung in and out a few more times until most of its momentum was lost.

A heavy silence reigned over the saloon until one of the men playing cards – Din didn’t know his name – let out a low whistle. ‘Red sure is like a tornado, gettin’ worked up like that.’

The other man let out a sharp bark of laughter and twisted around to look at Din. ‘Say, son, what’d you say to get that kinda reaction?’

Din didn’t reply, just pressed his lips into a thin line as he glanced back to the doors and the men returned to their game.

*

Not even sleep had been able to quieten the anger swirling in your chest. At best it had been dampened, its edges worn away and not so sharp when it pressed against your ribs, but still it lingered. The disregard for your marksmanship was what irked you most, and had resulted in you standing outside your house, revolver in hand.

Three cans set on a rotting log were your targets, some seventy-five yards away from where you stood. You flicked the safety off before you levelled the revolver at the far left can, squinted as you lined up your shot, breathed in, tightened your finger over the trigger.

The shot rang out and the first can went flying, then the second, then the third, all glinting as they spun and arced through the air, catching the light as they fell.

‘Not a bad shot.’

Your shoulders tensed before you realised it was the same voice you first heard the day before.

You turned around to spot the stranger – Mando – leaning against the fence that bordered your home, an elbow resting on a post, a thumb hooked in his belt. Once again, his eyes were shadowed by the brim of his hat, the sun high in the east and its light cutting diagonally across his face.

‘Shouldn’t you already be away?’ Your words were bitter as you reloaded your revolver, the empty cartridges clinking as they struck each other before settling in the dry earth by your feet.

A nonchalant shrug. Guarded eyes. No reply.

‘Then what are you doing here?’ You tried.

Twice now you had rephrased your questions. Perhaps you were too familiar with your lonesomeness, your words clunky with disuse and needing to be stretched. Or maybe he was too different from all those you had encountered in your life, and you too determined to figure him out and persuade him.

‘I thought about what you said yesterday,’ he started, words careful as though he had turned those thoughts over again and again in his head.

You did not bother to look at him as you clicked the revolver’s cylinder back into position. ‘Yeah? What part?’

‘All of it.’ His words prompted you to look up and take stock of him again – you had not expected that from the same man who had so shamelessly shot you down less than twenty-four hours ago.

Even in the harsh sunlight, a sense of danger still clung to him, as dark as the duster coat he wore. Perhaps he would not strike, but a snake’s scales nevertheless warned anyone who tread nearby.

Mando took your silence as encouragement to speak again. ‘You’d really risk your life just so a few people will think better of you?’

You shrugged and scuffed your boot against the ground. ‘Don’t have much else to risk.’

There was more to it than that of course – you wanted to prove yourself to yourself in a way, to be sure that you were right to deny and renounce the remnants of your father that clung to you – but you weren’t prepared to admit that to a near stranger.

Mando inclined his head in the direction of your home, looking beyond your shoulder to what was essentially a shack. ‘Don’t you live with your family?’

You glanced back, as if to make sure it had not wandered off while you back was turned, but when you faced him again your thoughts remained with the house that had not held a family for years. It was a ghost of its former self, a grey gravestone that marked the site of death and disease, pain and misery. Any fond memories the house held had been swept out the door with the edges of shrouds, leaving only spectres that slammed shutters and shook silverware in the night.

Or were you the ghost? Maybe you had in fact died along with them and you were nothing but a phantom trapped in the past, caught between worlds – the one you had lived in, not necessarily happy but content, and the one you wanted to throw yourself into. Maybe that was why you were so desperate to leave with Mando, to exorcise yourself from the purgatory you found yourself in. Even if you didn’t make it to heaven, hell had to be better than the intermediate – the lurch of your stomach before a fall, the threat that left goosebumps across your skin but would not reveal itself. Hell, at least, was definite.

And what was the point of lying?

‘Not anymore.’

Vague, but the grief pulling at your words betrayed what had become of your family.

Your gaze had drifted to the horizon as you recollected the past and when you snapped back to the present, Mando was looking at you, a marked change about his demeanour. His eyes didn’t hold the pity that those of the townspeople held, but you couldn’t quite place what change your admission had caused.

Was it… recognition…?

He turned away before you could say for definite, dispelling the weight of your admission and the grief lurking in both of you when he cleared his throat. You kept your eyes on him while his head remained tilted towards his feet, his hat keeping you from trying to discern the thoughts running through his mind.

After about a minute of silence filled only by you fiddling with your revolver (an attempt to quell the anxiousness held in your hands), Mando shifted his weight, stood tall and raised his head to look at you once more. ‘You got a horse?’

‘Fastest in town.’ You boasted, hope tightening your chest.

Din nodded, the dry dirt crunching beneath his feet as he half turned away. He looked to the horizon, across the dusty plains that stretched to the distant blue mountains, his jaw shifting like he was actually chewing over his thoughts. He didn’t look away from the landscape when he spoke again. ‘If you’re so set on coming with me, then meet me in front of the general store at dawn tomorrow,’ he said, voice gruff as he glanced your way only once more before turning on his heel and starting off towards town.

He already knew you would be there anyway.

You followed his retreating figure down the hill with your eyes, your thoughts turning over and over again, oblivious to the clouds gathering at your back.


End file.
